Cry, Devil, Die
by misanthropic shade
Summary: Demon one who hunts those who walk by night. Until encountering a night walker unlike anything he's come across before, that is. Someone who seems to offer as much despair as he does hope. Devil May Cry/Crow crossover. Rated for horror and potentially gra
1. Default Chapter

Title - Cry, Devil, Die Author - misanthropic shade Archive - Rating - R Warnings - death, violence, action, horror Disclaimers - I do not own Devil May Cry in any way, nor do I make a claim to. The same applies to The Crow enterprise. No profit, no harm done.  
  
Slow shadows crept across the street, silent melody to the dance of refuse. Dante watched the shadows for a few moments, transfixed by something that he couldn't quite put a finger on until the obviousness struck him - the shadows were wrong. He strolled down the stairs of his dilapidated office to catch a glimpse of the moon hiding behind a thick cover of fast moving clouds. He waited with the patience of an immortal until the clouds finally retreated, affording him a view of what he knew he'd suspected the first time. A dark halo encircled the moon, muting its color almost imperceptibly, but noticeable to Dante's heightened vision. Uneasy at the view he thought he'd seen somewhere before, he mentally brushed aside the sense of foreboding in favor of heading home.  
  
An appreciable distance to the city Dante had landed in - almost literally - the darkened moon's light fell upon a dismal body of water. The light reflected tiredly as if it barely had the energy to strike the water, let alone reflect from it as well. Near the water's shore, a tree stood, gnarled with age or weariness at being ensconced in such a desolate landscape. The previously calm water churned suddenly, sending ripples across the surface toward the farthest shore. The first ripples had barely begun to settle when a fresh set of bubbles broke the surface, churning the water into a frenzy until something white glistened in the midst of the fury. Fingers that had once been smooth curled bitterly, as if the muscles beneath had atrophied and might snap were the fingers to do more than bend. Moments passed and soon the wrist gave way to mottled grey flesh of a forearm, closely followed by a mate. The posture might have suggested raising one's hands to the heavens in prayer had anyone been close by to bear witness to this unholy birthing. However, no one was present, save for the melancholy moon and the swift clouds that preferred that their shadows cast elsewhere.  
  
Once the elbows had crossed the threshold of water, they bent and the hands gripped the sides of the churning liquid as if it were solid. In defiance to nature, the water held the weight of person working itself free of its watery grave. A head pulled itself free next, opening its mouth to let loose a painful wail. Water invaded the mouth and the owner gagged reflexively, spitting out the excess with a sorrowful moan. Strings of black hair matted its head, swaying against the white flesh and dripping heavily with water. From beneath the clotted bangs, ebony eyes peered, first with confusion and then sharp hatred. The man, unmindful of his naked state, pulled himself up out of the water and his gaze rose to the dark moon.  
  
The black halo seemed to pulse in response and from its edges something broke free. Black wings fluttered strongly, sending the messenger closer and closer until it lighted on the tree close to the shivering man. The crow squawked, restlessly moving on its perch as it peered with dark eyes at the sopping man. The man tried to ask a question, however nonsensical, and croaked in response. He threw his head back and suddenly laughed, delighted at the heavy sound of dead lungs pulsing with air. The crow took flight, circling above the man and struck off in slow flight toward lights in the distance. Unperturbed at his state, the man gathered himself up, grimacing at the pain that wracked his body and instinctively followed the bird.  
  
The image of the moon haunted Dante as he slumbered enough that he awoke time without count during the night simply to verify the light of the moon was the same and not a dream. When dawn finally threatened, he scowled to himself, unable to see the moon any longer and threw himself against the couch instead. It wasn't important, he admonished himself. It was an odd occurrence and nothing more. Convincing himself of the notion was impossible, he gave up on sleep altogether. Hours later, he gazed at the sky from his balcony, anticipating seeing the same image rather than the rising sun. In the light of a new day, he knew that the previous night's oddities hadn't been merely incidental, but rather the beginning of something. With pursed lips, he wondered how this would bode in the near future. Lady or the Tiger, he thought with a wry grin. Good or bad future, good or bad deeds to come. Oddly excited that something of such magnitude had just begun, Dante whistled on the way to work.  
  
*just because it comes from the mind of a wacko, doesn't necessarily mean it's insane* 


	2. Cry, Devil, Die 1?

Title - Cry, Devil, Die 1/? Author - misanthropic shade aka trowacko Archive - Warnings - death, action, violence, horror Disclaimers - I do not own Devil May Cry in any way, nor do I make a claim to. The same applies to the Crow enterprise. No profit, no harm done.  
  
To every entrance into the mortal plane, there was a mirroring exit back into the demon world. The danger with using such entries was that it ran the risk of someone else finding the exit before the devil could properly hide it, thus ensuring its return as it was almost impossible to predict exactly where the exit would appear. In the times that a mortal happened upon the exit, they had an annoying knack of sending inanimate objects through it - mostly out of fascination of seeing it disappear - shortly followed by a pet, or something else alive. It was the living force that the portal recognized and closed itself up, it's mission accomplished by allowing passage back into the demon realm and leaving behind an almost imperceptible scar on the surface of whatever it had been created on.  
  
Had the human still been gaping in awe at seeing the dimensional hole closing, Nigel was sure he would have gladly hacked them in half for ruining his only escape from the hated world. He didn't enjoy being in the mortal plane anymore than he absolutely had to; nonetheless, it was with a minor stab of vindictive amusement that he regarded the scarred wall and imagined a mortal quivering in fear in the land of devils. A desolate landscape where the sun shone only in colors of blood and dirt, an appropriate overcast for the beasts that roamed her keep. Thanks to devil hunters, the amount of time a devil could remain unknown in the mortal plane was somewhat short, but infinitely longer than a mortal would remain alive in the Underworld. Thus somewhat mollified at being stranded on the mortal plane, Nigel left the dubious comfort of the dilapidated warehouse in favor of striking off for the closest inhabited area to him. In order to get back home, he had to secure an exit before he could properly fulfill his mission and the only way to do that was to trick a mortal into opening a dimensional rift. It didn't matter that such rifts had a tendency to cost the creator his or her life - if anything, such things were necessary when the need was as urgent as his, he concluded.  
  
Outside, the sun shone brightly and Nigel grimaced at the amount of bright light that infected the very air. Pulling his coat more firmly about his shoulders, he started walking toward the place he knew to be downtown. He paid little attention to the people he eventually encountered. In a town where crime was the largest trade, Nigel didn't figure on being bothered at all so long as he didn't interfere with the lives of people working on avoiding everyone else. Before the sun had crossed midday, he'd acquired a pair of sunglasses that took the edge off the brightness of the day in addition to a fairly simple black cap that matched the rest of his black ensemble. The only break in the monotony of his color choice was the silver streaks in his otherwise ebony tresses that shifted softly over his leather duster, vainly reaching for the ground. A smile crossed his features when he finally found what he'd been seeking when he stood outside a building that should have been condemned. Large, brightly-lit red letters spelled out a name that had become quite known in the Underworld. With the sun beginning its descent, Nigel walked up the short stairs and entered Devil May Cry.  
  
Dante took another long draw of his water and let loose a contented sigh. All the while, he aimed with one eye and tossed another dart at the board against the door. His last throw had secured a place in the bull's eye while the other lay peppered close to it. Confident that his next throw would again strike the bull's eye, Dante let it fly. At that precise moment, the door opened and he entertained a moment of panic and half amusement that he was about to strike a potential client that he failed to react whatsoever. The tip of the dart thudded solidly in the forehead of the stranger, just above his left eye. Given the position of the dartboard, Dante mentally cursed even as he bolted upright as he could see that it would have indeed hit the bright red spot in the middle.  
  
The sharp poke against his forehead did nothing to quell Nigel's mood and he took a moment to blink at the oddity of being hit with a dart as he walked in the door. He caught sight of the devil hunter spring up and walk towards him with a suppressed smile.  
  
"Bull's eye?" Nigel asked tiredly, his patience quite at an end.  
  
Dante stopped short of the stranger and his eyes narrowed slightly. Any other man would have reacted instantly upon feeling a dart skewer their head, yet the stranger seemed only slightly perturbed. His left hand dropped to Ebony while his right reached for the silver dart.  
  
"You could say that. I didn't hear you come up the stairs, otherwise I might not have thrown it," Dante returned, popping the dart free. He was slightly surprised to see the wound let loose a couple droplets of blood that rested just above the man's eyebrow. Devils rarely bled at all until their energy was almost completely sapped. He backed away, slipping the dart between his belt and trousers and placing both hands comfortably on his twin guns.  
  
Nigel chuckled. "Might not have?"  
  
"Yeah, might not have. What is it, friend? Have I been seeking you, or have you just found me?"  
  
"A little of both, I'd wager," Nigel smiled easily, walking deeper into the room. Dante backed up an equal amount of paces to keep them at the same distance. "I was sent here to find the devil hunter called Dante. I'm fairly certain there's only one hunter by that name. On the other hand, I suppose I'm also your sport in a sense, although I'd argue that half of me isn't."  
  
'That's why he bleeds, yet didn't feel the full pain of being hit by the dart...' Dante pondered for a few moments, allowing the stranger to take in the extent of his office. "You were sent --"  
  
"I was told that the son of the great Sparda was young, yet I find that he's aged. I'm almost wondering where he gets his great strength from even if half of it was derived from a devil," Nigel interrupted. He stopped in front of a large skull with a set of horns protruding from the sides of its head. The purple streaks over the curves marked it as a former resident of the Outer Plains, although any distinguishing features of its face were lost as most of the flesh had already decomposed.  
  
Dante sputtered. iDid he just say--/i "Hey, wait a minute, what do you mean iold/i?" he huffed indignantly. His anger hid the curiosity he had at the man's arrival at being thought of as old. Sure, he wasn't a spring chicken anymore, but his features were far from old. Just to verify, he glanced in the mirror next to his desk to see his skin was yet smooth.  
  
"Devils age differently from mortals, yet there are certain features that tend to mark the old. Your hair is all white, like that of an old mortal, or an aged devil from the Northern Gates. Your father had the same white hair by the time that I knew him. It is odd, however," Nigel contemplated as he eyed Dante up and down with a critical gaze, "that your appearance otherwise doesn't suggest much age, even for a mortal."  
  
"You knew my father?" Dante's mind reeled. From throwing a dart at the man to being called old to being confronted with a devil - half-devil - who knew his father... the night was definitely not shaping up to be dull.  
  
"There's not a devil worth his rank who didn't know Sparda. Even after he defected to the side of mortals, he was still spoken highly of in whispers, if not cursed in public." Nigel seemed to shake himself of memories and refocused on Dante with a serious expression. "There were those who chose to stay at Mundus' side after Sparda betrayed him and there were those who stayed because Sparda asked them to. In all the long years since we last saw him, we've faithfully served masters we didn't want to serve and have performed our duties as best we could for his sake. When we learned of his death, some devils came here only to be hunted down and killed. Others went into hiding, ensuring their death as well as of those they might have cared for when found. There were some who chose to remain in their roles for Sparda's sake when we heard that his sons would grow in his shadow."  
  
Dante shook his head in disbelief. "Even if that were true, why are you here now? My father's dead, my mother's dead and my brother's dead. There's only one Sparda left and that Sparda intends to live out his life as a Hunter."  
  
"You have the strength and powers of a devil and the ability to meld with the mortal population that you only partially belong to. Your parents may be dead, but as Sparda's offspring, you may also have a voice that could be heard by all in the mortal world. To unite them as Sparda once did."  
  
"Why would that be necessary at all? The gates between the worlds are closed. The only portals that can be opened anymore will only allow for one or two to travel between the worlds. I truly doubt Mundus or anyone else would be able to create that many portals for an army to invade --"  
  
"He doesn't need to create a number of portals - he only needs to create one," Nigel interrupted. Dante had a moment to scowl in annoyance for being interrupted before he gestured at the stranger to continue. "In the past, he's managed to create a merge of sorts between the worlds that should have allow him to free himself from exile as well as create a pathway between the worlds. He's failed at it twice thus far and he's far from giving up. Rather than trying to kill two birds with one stone, he's freed himself back into the Underworld first. Now that he's at his strongest, he's been working on opening a permanent hole between the worlds where his armies could flock back and forth."  
  
"War. He's trying to start another war between the two planes?"  
  
"Not exactly," Nigel smiled. He scooted himself backwards and sat cross- legged on Dante's desk, taking a moment of amusement at Dante's obvious annoyance with his liberties. "He started one war and intended to win that war. Sparda stopped him that time. He doesn't see this as a second war - he wants to finish the war that never stopped in his eyes, even when he was in exile."  
  
"Why are you coming to me now? Why not sooner - hell, why at all?"  
  
"His army's almost ready. With the element of surprise, it's going to be a massacre. At least if the people are ready for him, the odds of his victory are that much smaller."  
  
Dante scoffed. "That still doesn't answer my question, friend. You've got an annoying habit of dodging questions."  
  
Nigel sighed. "My name is Nigel. I have served your father for as long as I can remember. For those of us who swore our allegiance to him vowed that we'd do the same as he did should the need ever arise. Of the last of us remaining, I was chosen for this mission because we share the unique history of having mortal mothers. With my own family gone, my absence won't be noted for a while."  
  
War. Dante's mind worked quickly although he had a sinking suspicion that his first conclusion was probably the correct one.  
  
"This world isn't the same as it was when my father watched over it. By the time he'd married and had a family, people were beginning to forget why there was such a leader anymore. When he died, the world divided itself and chose to govern itself in pieces. There's not much in the way of unity here. If war does descend upon these people, it won't matter what I say or do - a lot of them are going to die before they believe."  
  
It was Nigel's turn to shake his head in disbelief. "That's impossible. You're Sparda's son --"  
  
"His son who was born into a time when the war had been well over two centuries previous. Devil's may not age the same way as mortals, but time is still time and time lets people forget."  
  
Nigel frowned. "The color of your hair suggests you're older than two centuries--"  
  
"My hair, I'll have you know, has always been silver--"  
  
"Your brother's hair isn't white--"  
  
"Stop!" Dante barked harshly. His fingers twitched above his guns as he fought to calm down. "When did you see my brother to know that? Let's try to stay on the same page, okay? My buddies here are getting nervous," he added, patting his guns.  
  
"When Mundus stole your mother and brother, I had the honor of meeting your brother. He was young, but he grew so very fast. He looked just like you - only he had black hair."  
  
"My mother--"  
  
"I cannot speak of such things. It is not my place. I can tell you that in the years following, I watched how your brother grew and fought for Mundus, although it wasn't by his own choice. It saddened us that a Sparda would be forced into Mundus' control, even as we were proud that his strength grew so much."  
  
Dante caught Nigel watching him expectantly. The pride in his voice at Vergil's accomplishments, even in bondage, was obvious and he didn't want to be the one to tell the devil of Vergil's fate. Better him than someone who didn't care, he decided. "He was strong," he agreed quietly. "I didn't know who he was until after I'd destroyed him. My own brother." Dante sat heavily in the chair before the desk.  
  
"Destroyed?" Nigel blinked in surprise. "Nelo Angelo? What do you mean destroyed? He still serves Mundus to this day."  
  
*just because it comes from the mind of a wacko, doesn't necessarily mean it's insane* 


	3. Cry, Devil, Die 2?

Title - Cry, Devil, Die 2/? Author - misanthropic shade aka trowacko Archive - Rating - R Warnings - death, action, violence, horror Disclaimers - I do not own Devil May Cry in any way, nor do I make a claim to. The same applies to the Crow enterprise. No profit, no harm done.  
  
When the ground had first started to rumble, Damon had thought it to be from a number of vehicles until it grew in intensity. Soon the dust had begun to stir as well when the cause of the commotion drew closer. A low luminescence grew behind the closest hill and it was to this that Damon watched, half in fear and half in anger at being stirred from slumber.  
  
"Damon? What is it, what's happened?"  
  
Damon took a moment to glance back at his partner with a softer expression. Mara wiped the sleep from her light brown eyes and pulled herself upright at the same time. Her dark auburn hair was only slightly disheveled, unable to attain a true messy state due to the interrupted sleep.  
  
"I don't know," he replied truthfully. "There's something coming this direction, I think. I thought it was something like a military convey," he continued, uneasiness building as rapidly as the light grew brighter, "except the road would've already taken them toward town, not this way."  
  
"Are we worried?" she asked in mock fear - perhaps a fraction was real, Damon realized.  
  
"I think we should be," he decided. He glanced about their campsite and analyzed the quickest method of breaking it down while trying to find a place to hide. The cliff's edge was a favorite spot for them to camp from time to time, but it was also devoid of most plant life outside the tall grasses where they enjoyed quiet evenings staring at the stars and simply being. Without another word, Mara had begun to gather their belongings and stuffing them into the ready packs they'd both carried. By the sound and distance of the approaching... something... Damon figured they probably had less than a minute to hide their presence completely. Taking a few moments he could ill afford, Damon stopped Mara long enough to give her a kiss on the side of her mouth. Her smile warmed him and he turned back to his own tasks.  
  
The two had been together for less than a year, but it was enough that it felt like a lifetime - or, at times, not long enough. One a mechanic, one a student of the arts, theirs was all but a fairy tale on how they'd managed to find each other at all. A chance meeting when she'd left her broken down car at the closest garage without so much as a note. Damon, not particularly remarkable-looking despite his wavy black hair and cold blue eyes, had pondered its arrival and, on impulse, fixed the problem merely because he knew how. His subsequent refusal of payment had been the catalyst to their continued meetings until they were simply together.  
  
"Got mine," Mara called tightly. She'd managed to slip her shoes and sweater on, although the sweater was inside out. She stood up and looked back toward the source of the noise.  
  
"Leave the bag in the grasses away from our site. We're going to scoot down as far down the hill as we can and bury ourselves in the grass."  
  
Mara followed him with a quiet laugh. "This better not be something dangerous or it better be blind, my dear. If anyone were to really look in our direction--"  
  
"That's just it. If they don't already know we're here, no one will need to look for us at all. We just need to buy some time."  
  
"This bag was brand new, too," Mara muttered before burying it as deep as she could in the lush grass. Unless anyone was close to it, it'd be nearly impossible to see. Satisfied that the same would hold for them, she ran lightly behind Damon down toward the lower pathway where they'd come up from. At least without their car visible from the higher point of the road, they might not be noticed at all.  
  
"Now!" he called quietly and scooted himself under the grass. She followed suit, careful to make sure they weren't too close together, lest the monotony of the sea of grass be noticeable. At least they tried, she thought as she saw the first creature breast the top of the cliff.  
  
The source of the rumble ended up being a gigantic demon that was almost liquid, yet solid at the same time. It moved like a large tank might, although it evidenced a good amount of speed when it shot forward and spun around several times, a thick blade curling around it before returning to the beast. Behind it, a crowd of devils walked purposefully behind it. From his vantage point, Damon counted at least a dozen of them, most of them different in appearance.  
  
A streak of blue shot into the sky, flying high enough to make one strain just to see it before it turned in a wide arc and returned rapidly back toward the earth. It paused before it reached the entourage and flew in a low circle around the area the group had gathered. The sound of voices was broken on the winds and one by one, they started to vanish from sight. The largest of the group was almost the last to disappear and Damon heaved a sigh of relief. Whatever the devils were up to, they weren't going to be found at all. The plan, however rough, had worked.  
  
"Damon," Mara whispered urgently. She parted some of the grasses between them to get a better look at her lover. "What happened to the one that was flying around?" Damon never had a chance to answer.  
  
Blood splattered across Mara's back, cascading in a thin shower over the grasses and across Damon's face. He blinked in disbelief at the frozen look on Mara's face. A sickening crunch followed and Damon's eyes found the blade protruding from the light grey sweater she wore. She uttered a mild groan, punctuated by twin streaks of blood from her mouth before life departed from her body. Damon's eyes followed the line of the blade to its hilt where they stopped at the black flesh overshot with metallic blue streaks. Tears blurred his vision, yet he continued upward until he found the creature's gaze. The inky holes of pearly yellow grew brighter as it yanked the sword free. It stood tall and proud, taller than any man, covered with black rocky flesh that was broken only by the shimmers of blue over it. On its head, twin horns curved around the sides of its face, completing the beastly appearance. The wet crunch of ripped bone when the being yanked free its sword made it abundantly clear that Mara would never be revived, never be his again--  
  
"Mara!" Damon shrieked. He stumbled upright, his hands and legs almost numb from lying for so long. The demon regarded him without expression - if the stony face was capable of expression, that was - and raised his sword once more. Damon fell backwards and the stroke that might have cleaved him in half glanced off his chest and thigh before the metal buried itself in the soft ground. In the few seconds it took for the devil to pull it free, Damon had his hands wrapped around its scabby throat. No matter what he tried, he couldn't feel any give beneath his fingertips. His rage gave him greater energy, yet it didn't matter to something that could not succumb to mortal strength. His voice howled with his rage, blind enough that he failed to notice the beast had taken them both to the skies.  
  
"You son of a bitch!" he cried as he felt his hands slipping. "Die, just die!"  
  
'You first,' Damon distinctly heard in his mind before a crushing blow sent him reeling away from his enemy. He watched with detached wonder as his body fell toward the earth while the demon remained in the air. With a sudden plunge, it followed him, burying the sword deep into his chest. He felt blood tear free of him, invade his lungs, and sputter from his mouth. He barely felt the burning heat rapidly moving outward from the wound as his body let free his life's essence. Water suddenly surrounded them both and the last thing Damon saw of the creature was a small smile ghosting over its lips. Why couldn't it just die?  
  
Mara, Mara, of the white skin and burnt umber hair. Why, Mara? What happened?  
  
Why-  
  
'why...'  
  
"Why?" he whispered, unable to pull himself from the ball that he'd curled himself into on the cold floor. Damon glanced around the small house they'd shared. If not for the multitude of webs and dust coating everything, it was still exactly as they'd left it. The stench of rotted food was fairly mild, indicating that enough time had lapsed for it to have completely decomposed.  
  
"Like Mara?" he asked the crow. The crow squawked briefly and hopped from the top of the fridge to the back of one of the dining room chairs. "What did you bring me here for? What do you want me to do?" He might have felt stupid had it not been for the fact that the crow had guided him from the place he'd been killed to the house he shared with Mara. No animal should have been able to do such a thing. It didn't matter that he hadn't even recognized the house until he'd touched the doorknob and a savage stampede of memories had gone mercilessly through him until he'd fallen inside the house and merely let them birth themselves.  
  
He'd remembered everything - Mara, her death, his own. The devil had been the one to take everything away from him, he suddenly understood. He couldn't fight the devil then, but he wasn't a mere mortal anymore either. He stood up and walked toward their bedroom, disturbing the dust into small eddies that seemed to guide his steps. Pushing the door to open it brought forth more strong memories and he stood reeling in place until they subsided. With everything he touched, specific memories bubbled to the surface, demanding attention before subsiding. Little by little, Damon suppressed the full effect of the memories while he concentrated on getting into clothes that hadn't been worn for a very long time.  
  
The black jeans had always been his favorite were followed by a rich navy shirt that was thin in its feel, yet strong in its material. Over that, he slipped a black vest and buttoned it. The crow flew into the room, making a round before lighting on the headboard of the bed. On the pillows at its feet lay a small smattering of decorations that Mara had always taken the time to place no matter how late she might have been running. The centerpiece of the collection was the mask she'd bought to wear to a costume party, yet never got the chance to since it would have covered her entire face and Damon wanted to be able to steal kisses at will. She'd acquiesced with the same amusement and adoration she did anytime she was again reminded of how much she loved her man and how much he loved her in return.  
  
The face was almost as white as his own in death. The eyes and lips had been accentuated with dark smears of black paint that gave the face a foreboding appearance. It was, Damon finally conceded, the way the expression of the mask appeared that had made him uneasy enough to ask Mara not to wear it. Except for seeing her eyes, she would be hidden and it would've been impossible to consider kissing her at any point during the ball. At least without substance behind it, it lacked the ability to create the same fear he had when she'd first worn it.  
  
That, he suddenly decided, was what he had to forge himself into. Not a man, not even a mask, but the face, the very essence, of fear. In Mara's closet he found a few decorative blades that she'd collected. Part of him didn't want to use them at all; she'd been so in love with all kinds of art that it seemed sacrilegious to consider using her art pieces for weapons. He would recreate himself in such a way that failure would surely not be an option, he told himself firmly as he found their scabbards and slipped them wherever they'd fit within his clothes. Excited, afraid, and lost, Damon walked into the bathroom and began rummaging through the various bottles and tubes within it. He walked from the house, all but a devil himself with his painted face and savage expression. The crow flew from the doorway and landed on his shoulder. It blinked and Damon followed suit as their eyes scanned the horizon in identical paths.  
  
"Show me," he commanded of the bird. "Show me where to find him."  
  
The crow took flight, spiraling upwards until it struck off toward the city. Damon followed the crow and what was left of his heart into the city. The sun hadn't set for very long before he found the crow sitting on the wire rack holding the neon with the words, "Devil May Cry" in blinding red letters. His determination curled his lips into a sneer as he heard voices within the building as he started up the stairs.  
  
*just because it comes from the mind of a wacko, doesn't necessarily mean it's insane*  
  
to be continued... 


	4. Cry, Devil, Die 3?

Title - Cry, Devil, Die 3/?

Author - trowacko

Archive - 

Rating - R (overall)

Warnings - death, violence, action/adventure

Disclaimers - I do not own Devil May Cry in any way, nor do I make a claim to. The same applies to the Crow enterprise. No profit, no harm done.

__

Brother.

"Vergil," Dante whispered. He glanced up to see a shimmer of heat drift over Sparda. The sword's surface settled back to its former rock-like state as if it hadn't reacted at all. His father's sword, his sword - and his brother's sword.

Nigel regarded the somber moment for all of five seconds before a short burst of laughter escaped him. "The not-so-aged devil forgot how hard it is to be destroyed? Even for a half-devil, what would normally kill a mortal wouldn't be something we couldn't regenerate from--" he stopped short as a thought suddenly struck him. "That's it!" Nigel cried, leaping from the desk.

"What's it?" Dante growled. The stranger's jibe had stung him enough to make him angry - more so at himself for not even considering the possibility that Vergil wasn't dead.

"One mortal life to open the gate. Two half-mortals - it just might work. Come, Dante, Son of Sparda, let's depart!"

"Depart to where?" Dante asked. "You're tongue moves faster than a roach from light." Things were moving too fast at once for him to process and all he wanted was a few minutes to absorb everything he'd learned. 

Nigel stopped at the front door. "You need to find a way to save your people on this side. I have to return to base before anyone really realizes that I'm gone. Prokus will cover for me, but that'll only hold up for a short time--"

"Is my brother there?"

Nigel paused a moment before he finished slipping the sunglasses over his dark gaze. It would've been better to lie to the man and prevent the inevitable from occurring, but the devil hunter reminded him of the old days. Nigel could never lie to Sparda either.

"He remains near Mundus' side. As Mundus comes and goes from the base, so does Nelo-- so does Vergil."

"I'm coming with you," Dante replied. He opened up his desk and pulled free a number of small flat boxes that he tucked into the pockets of his long coat before he slipped it over his shoulders. From the wall, he pulled free both Sparda and Alastor and the dual scabbard to carry them both. He slipped Sparda to the inside scabbard so Alastor remained the more ready of the two when he had need of either.

"What happens to your precious mortals if you happen to die in our world?"

Dante stopped shy of the door as he mulled it over. "There was once a great man - a devil - who took it upon himself to guard those who couldn't guard themselves. Since his passing, a small number of devil hunters have kept this world fairly comfortable without the threat of war by devils." He half-turned to face Nigel. "These people had limited resources against our kind. Despite that, they've lived good lives, if not somewhat sheltered. They rose up in arms to defend themselves before and I believe they can do it again. If they can't, why shouldn't they be ruled?"

"Are those words of a Sparda?" Nigel asked quietly.

"Those are the words of Dante," he replied, walking toward the door with Nigel close at hand. "Who is getting impatient at you dragging your feet, of interrupting me all the time--"

__

Thunk

Dante couldn't be sure which surprised him more - seeing a garishly clad creature outside his door with a wide grin and wild eyes, or the ornately decorated hilt of the knife that had plunged into his chest. He fell back, his right hand reaching for Ebony while his left twitched at the severed muscles in his shoulder and chest.

"Dante!"

Nigel caught the falling man and shoved him upright just as Ebony flew free of its holster. Three shots rang out and the creature fell backwards with a grunt of pain. The devil hunter hit the wall under the recoil and slid partway down. With a curse, he re-holstered the black gun and grasped the hilt of the broad knife. He uttered a growl as he jerked it free. The serrated edge ripped free chunks of flesh and ravaged any vein its surfaces missed on the way in. He held it up to the get a better view of it in the office's light, noting the delicate metal work and jewels that had been inlaid.

"Bastard is quieter than most," Dante grunted. The fact that he didn't hear its approach perturbed him - especially when coupled with the fact that he hadn't heard or felt Nigel's approach either. Although, there was something much different about the creature that was far more disturbing than Nigel's appearance.

"He's dead!" Nigel noted incredulously.

"Of course he's dead," Dante retorted, "I shot him."

"No," Nigel explained patiently. "I don't mean he's dead _now_. I mean he was already dead before you shot him."

"Dead?" Dante glanced at the body, his eyes widening slightly as the figure rocked on its back and slowly jerked itself to a sitting position. Within a few seconds it was upright and reaching for another weapon. Spit ran clean lines from its face as it grinned maliciously once its target had been reacquired. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"Take off its head!" Nigel shouted as he circled to the right. 

He motioned Dante left and pulled free a weapon that looked remarkably similar to the Nightmare Beta that Dante owned. Recognizing that a combined attack might best the creature, Dante dodged the second knife and pulled both guns free. The essence of his power swirled tightly around him, building quickly, and sparking over his arms to lend greater power to the bullets he loosed in short bursts. Each found a home in the black clad - "Clown? This... thing is a devil?" - figure, tearing out gouges of flesh and forcing it to dance under the dual onslaught. When it sprawled a good dozen or more feet away, the two half devils ceased their fire and cautiously approached it.

"Devil," the creature sputtered through the blood that filled its mouth. It rocked to its side almost enough to sit up before it collapsed once more. Its strength waned, yet it still tried to grasp a knife clipped to its belt.

"You're one for two, pal. If you intend on being one for three, that's fine by me; makes me up by two," Dante advised. He pulled Alastor free and held it near the beast's chest. "Or you can talk before you die. Makes no difference to me - one of you now, there'll always be more later."

"Not like me," it grinned. The coal black gaze clouded slightly as it stared at the sky, a stark contrast to the white paint that covered its face. Dante glanced up to see broken clouds sluggishly making their way across the sky, disinterested witnesses to the plagues on earth. A crow squawked loudly and suddenly dove at their position as if sensing carrion.

"Already the crows come for you," Nigel smirked as he watched the bird's descent.

"Yes," the figure agreed. "Even the crows."

"What--" Dante started and stopped just as suddenly.

A howl broke free of the garishly painted thing and it writhed on the ground. The inky blood that had pooled around its body suddenly swept back toward the body as though time reversed itself. Dante instinctively fell back and blinked in astonishment as the ragged holes closed once enough blood had been returned. The torn fabric was the only evidence that bullets had ravaged the body at all and even that seemed barely affected.

"It is human," Nigel insisted. "Dead, but human. Impossible."

"A dead human," Dante spat sarcastically. "No human can do what it's doing." Nigel was right, he thought nonetheless. The blood smelled of human origin despite the disquieting odor that overrode it. The man was something else, though. "A fairytale," he muttered, not entirely surprised that he spoke aloud - not the best of traits to have, especially when attempting to be subtle, but a trait that made him Dante.

"What are you talking about?" Nigel demanded. The Beta weapon on his arm sizzled dully with depleted power rapidly rising and intent on wrecking havoc. The few shots he'd sent into the thing had ripped free chunks of flesh - worse than the gaping holes that Dante's twin guns had done - and he'd watched as part of its body had flung free of it. Only to 'crawl' back to its owner and reattach itself as though it were such a small thing to accomplish. It was quite unsettling to him and he half worried that his fear was evident.

"If I am the man you think me to be, then tell me why you intend to end my life," Dante called to the creature. "But if you are who _I_ think are, then I doubt that it is I who you seek."

The crow squawked loudly in the ensuing silence while the empty street looked on. The sun seemed to double its efforts to lower itself beneath the horizon where it would be free of seeing the three creatures square off. A chill in the air stirred Dante's heavy coat, ruffling his too-white hair. Nigel glanced back and forth between the two, puzzled and wary. The beta weapon at his command hissed quietly, moving the arm it attached to in small motions, searching, waiting.

"You do not look like the demon I seek," the black-clad man finally answered. "Your scent is the same as is the odor of your blood. Yet..." he trailed off as his caution returned.

"What is it?" 

"He's exactly what you said he was," Dante replied wryly. "A human, and a dead one." He endured Nigel's pained look for a few moments and continued. "He's a creature of legend," Dante explained. "My mother made mention of them when I was younger. Men who could return in the name of vengeance."

"Is he here to take vengeance on you?"

"No," they both replied at the same time, each having realized the elusive truth that suddenly seemed obvious.

"He's come back for my brother. What did the devil do? If I may ask," Dante turned back to the man, his expression severe.

The creature's shoulders slumped and it sat heavily on the ground. "I... can almost remember," he grunted. His body rocked back and forth minutely and his fingers clutched deep into the matted locks of his hair. Visions assailed him as he relaxed his guard, forcing him to shudder.

"I don't know if we can help each other," Dante interrupted with a sidelong glance at Nigel. His fingers twitched minutely as he contemplated whether or not the crow really was the link to the man's regenerative abilities, or if that part of the barely remembered legends was false. He could take a couple of shots at both of them and hope to have enough time to lose them while they sought whatever gate Nigel had spoken of--

"I think we can help each other out, Dante."

"What?-" It was Dante's turn to be incredulous. He allowed Nigel to draw him slightly away from the crow creature.

"He's looking for Vergil, isn't he?" Nigel started excitedly.

"Yeah, that'd be my guess. I don't recognize him at all," Dante gusted in frustration. He regarded the shaking man guardedly. He had no doubt something terrible happened to him that would trigger his return for vengeance. Yet he also had no intention of allowing the man - the creature - a chance at killing his brother now that he was so close to saving him.

"The part of Nelo Angelo that binds him to Mundus must be destroyed before he can ever be Vergil again. Think of it. This guy won't stop until Nelo is dead, right? If he becomes Vergil, he won't be the same man."

"That's taking too large of a chance with my brother's life," Dante warned.

"If the guy can't die, what other choices do we have? Bring Vergil back to this side and have this guy hound him forever?"

"The man can be destroyed."

Nigel grinned. "Doesn't look like it'd be easy, though. Come on. I need to get back on the double. Maybe we can take him with us. Let him test his immortality among other immortals." He chuckled to himself, his eyes distant as he imagined.

"I don't like it-"

"What's there to like? We're wasting enough time standing around as it is when we should be--" Staring off into the distance when struck with an idea was apparently a trait inherent to Nigel. "Let's take him with us, Dante. I can't explain right now, but I think we should bring him."

"Getting back my brother in one piece is my sole job right now. If you do anything to endanger that--"

"I won't," Nigel assured smoothly. "Your goals are half of mine. Having Vergil destroyed would be counterproductive. All I'm asking you to do is to just trust me for a little while."

Dante regarded the two strangers who had so abruptly entered his life. It would have been impossible not to see some semblance of similarity between their arrival and his first meeting with Trish. Trust wasn't something he gave lightly, then or now. Well, probably less so now since he'd been betrayed already.

"Even half-devils can die."

The half-warning was the only thing Dante could have uttered to indicate his acquiescence and Nigel nodded just as gravely.

"Stranger," Nigel called to the black-clad form. The man looked up and got to his feet, his expression dull. "We must get to the desert. You're welcome to travel with us if you so desire."

"Are you taking me to my target?"

Nigel nodded. "Our objectives, it would seem, lay in a similar path." He turned to Dante. "Do you know where to find the old Triangle Bridge?"

Dante blinked in surprise. "Yeah, I know where to find it. But the place is dormant. Its power was wiped out when the bridge was brought down centuries ago."

"Wiping out a bridge doesn't diminish the power that was at its center. It's merely a bit harder to reach at the moment." He clapped Dante on the back and gestured at the newest of their group. "Got a name we can call you besides Blackie?"

"My name, devil, is Damon," he growled.

"Fitting somehow, don't you think, Dante?" Nigel started a brisk pace away from Devil May Cry without a glance back to see if his companions would follow. 

With a growing sense of trepidation, Dante frowned and followed suit, his hands ever present on his guns lest Damon wanted to suddenly take up another round. Damon, he saw, followed once he'd retrieved the dropped blades. The crow flew above the rooftops. Close enough to be seen, but not quite close enough to get a bead on.

"Actually, now that you mention it, Daemon was once a name given to the beasts that were first taken for devils - and they might have been. My father told me its meaning became to mean 'non-human' as an insult before it meant 'strength', which is where the name, 'Damon', is derived from."

"For your sake," Nigel's thin lips stretched into the slightest of smiles, "I hope you're strong enough for what lies ahead."

"Destiny," Damon whispered with a loving glance at the white moon that watched over the lands indifferently.

'Yeah, destiny,' Dante scowled mentally. At least the lack of real conversation afforded him the opportunity to mull over the events of the evening and of what might lie ahead. Finding a brother and endangering him to be destroyed. Or saved. A dead man and a half devil whose paths somehow intersected with his own so they now traveled together. It wasn't destiny, he was sure. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that had the two not entered his life, he might never see his brother again. Patience, it seemed, wasn't a friend of destiny and neither was it a friend to him as hard as he tried not to be excited and worried at the same time.

'Vergil. You're coming home. I promise.'

*just because it comes from the mind of a wacko, doesn't necessarily mean it's insane*


End file.
